


Light in the Shadows

by MechanicalDetective (deducemypain)



Category: LotR/Sherlock AU
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Crossover, Death, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deducemypain/pseuds/MechanicalDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this LotR/Sherlock crossover, John is a Gondorian soldier and Sherlock an exiled elf. There may be a few strange quirks that I've added in that don't entirely fit with either world. Either way, I hope you enjoy it.<br/>Admittedly, there's a bit of an uncomprehensible WTF factor with a OC twist, but you'll see.<br/>Happy reading.<br/>Possible tissue warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly canon but more likely not, elves get their hair chopped off when and if they're exiled.  
> This is before Bilbo and Frodo's age. When the elves are still in control of Mirkwood, ahem, when it was still called Greenwood the Great.  
> Also, my elvish might be incorrect. It's been a long time.

_“Where there is light, there are shadows._

_But then, to have shadows, there must again be light.”_

===

**-Autumn-**

**-The Twenty Third of September -**

 

John Watson heard the sound of heavy irons dragging across the floor long before the prisoner came into sight. A entire party of Gondorian soldiers accompanied and surrounded him, the pointed silver helmets polished to a shine, reflecting the early morning sunlight into John’s eyes and making him squint to get a glimpse of the captive. The wall of soldiers around him was too thick to make out anything but a few locks of dark hair.

John stood taller, straighter, at attention besides the king as the captain of the group strode in, his metal boots clanking as he knelt before the throne. He had a short frame, medium build, yet he somehow gave off a commanding aura, especially when he stood up straight. Perhaps that was why the king had allowed him to stay on.

“My liege,” the captain said, looking up when he was acknowledged. “We have captured one of the elves that have been slaughtering the cattle and livestock. We caught him in the act, with the bloody blade still held in his hand.”

“Well done, Captain Lestrade. You shall be handsomely rewarded for this. Now, move aside, and allow me to lay eyes on this elf.” King Almanelle motioned carelessly with his hand for Capt. Lestrade to move aside, and with a bow, the Gondorian clanked backwards to stand beside his men. When one of the guards jerked up the chain around the elf’s neck to reveal his face, John barely held back a gasp.

The ragged curls of dark brown, almost black, hair trickled down like delicate streams, masking the pointed ears and high forehead and ending abruptly below the ears. The skin tone was almost the color of snow in contrast with the dark hair, accentuating the cold grey eyes, the hawk-like nose, the thin lips pressed together tightly.

 _The hair is shorn so short for an elf, not to mention a human... I wonder why?_ John thought. _His face would have been exquisitely beautiful, were it not for those nasty bruises around those perfect features... his lip seems to be bleeding as well. Who would have the heart to hit such a creature?_   He looked amongst the men, noticing that one with a particularly smug sneer had blood on his gauntlet. Recognizing the soldier, John felt a surge of anger and hatred. _That bastard Anderson... the whole army knows he’s sleeping with Donovan. I can’t believe no one’s told her father yet. He’d surely have his head on a pike. Quite likely, actually, with the power he has... And it would do all of us a great deal of good, removing that slimy git from this world..._

The elf was thin, his ribs showed through his ripped and torn clothes, but he tried to hold his posture straight despite his weakness and hunger, and he spat a mixture of saliva and blood at the King’s feet.

“It’s got spirit,” Almanelle announced, a smirk on his face. “Take the scum to the dungeons, and let it rot there until I decide what to do with it. Watson!”

“Y-yes, my liege? How may I serve you?”

“You’ll bring it its daily meal and treat its wounds. After all, you are a doctor, are you not? Don’t give it too much food! We don’t want our precious captive strong enough to escape, do we?” the king barked. John’s stomach turned at the thought of having to enter the dark and stench-filled dungeon underground, filled with the rotting corpses of prisoners forgotten and the perfume of death itself.

“Y-yes, my liege.” John sighed in resignation.

 

John walked down the stone steps to the dungeon, shivering as the warm sunlight soon disappeared and was replaced by the flickering torchlight. It seemed like with every step it got colder, and he couldn’t wait until he could get above ground again.

He looked down at the bowl of slop on the tray he carried. It was white and looked quite suspicious, and there seemed to be little things crawling around in it, or perhaps that was a trick of the fire? John shuddered in disgust. He’d rather starve to death than eat the dungeon food.

A faint sound ahead made him stop in his tracks. Not wanting to alert whoever it was to his presence, John set the tray down and silently trod closer towards the noise. Turning a corner, he quickly ducked back behind the wall.

John realized that the door was open and someone was in the elf’s cell. This alone should have prompted him to report to the king, but John stood rooted to the spot. He heard the unmistakable whistling of a whip over and over again, a soft thud of impact accompanying each whiplash, then sharp inhalations of agony. John counted the strikes till he reached over twenty, then finally stepped around the corner. His eyes opened wide in horror.

The pale elf was shrunken into a corner, a man in dark clothes standing over him, his clothes even more in tatters than before. He shivered violently and clenched his shackle-clad arms closer to his chest, turning so that John wouldn’t see his face. It only shifted the strips of ripped cloth and showed the furious red slashes across the pale and nearly skeletal back. The elf’s back convulsed with each strike of the whip, new lines appearing everywhere the torture weapon landed. The cries of agony grew louder and louder, and the elf trembled more violently each time, becoming so pale that he resembled a ghost.

One last whiplash elicited a muffled shriek of pain from the dark-haired pale figure, and John couldn’t take it anymore. He rushed in the open door, pulling the whip out of the tormentor’s hand in a single fluid motion. The person whirled around, grabbing John by the throat, slamming him to the wall, and lifting John’s toes clear off the dungeon floor.

“Listen, Watson,” an unfamiliar deep voice barked out, and John realized that there was a mask upon the man’s face, one that covered all the features but the eyes. Dark black eyes, as cold and unforgiving as a Ringwraith.

“W-who are you?” John choked out, fighting to return to the ground.

“My identity is of no matter to you. Just know that if you tell anyone about this little... incident, I’ll find Mary. Your Mary. And I’ll torture and slit your little darling’s throat right in front of your eyes along with this elf, and then your dear Harry, and then you. Do you understand?” John paled even further, and managed to nod, the man’s gloved hand still tight upon his throat.

“Good. I’ll see you again, little elf. We’ll continue our little game.”

The man released John’s throat, and he slid to the dungeon floor gasping and rubbing at his throat, easing his windpipe. The man had disappeared as quickly as a shadow. When John had recovered enough to stop gasping, he looked back at the elf. The nearly unconscious being was still huddled into the wall, and he looked even paler than before. John reached out to touch the elf’s shoulder, but drew back when he brushed against a strip of torn cloth, realizing that it was saturated with blood. He instinctively reached for the wrap of gauze and medicinal ointment on his belt, wanting to help the elf out of his pain.

 _If I wasn’t here, the elf would be dead!_ John thought. _That man, he nearly killed him! I need to know what's happening. And I really should find out his name... if I’m going to see him everyday, I might as well call him by his name and not by ‘him’. He_ does _have a mind of his own, after all._

“H-hey,” John cleared his throat, then tapped the elf’s shoulder lightly. He shuddered and moved himself even closer to the wall, shaking like a leaf. Not one to be discouraged, John carried on. “Would you mind telling me your name, please?” No response.

“I need to bandage your wounds. Wait here. I brought you some food.” John instantly regretted his words. _You bloody fool, where would he go? He’s so weak, I doubt he could stand up, let alone get out of those chains!_ Nevertheless, John still shut and locked the door behind him, wincing as the cell locked, echoing in the silence. The Gondorian soldier was one who never scoffed at the tales of the elven race’s great strength and speed. Bringing back the tray of white gunk, he laid it down near the elf and waited. Nothing happened.

“You’re right,” John sighed. “I wouldn’t eat that stuff myself. You can have this... My wife made a batch for me, and I was hoping to eat a few for dessert after lunch, but I suppose you need it more than I do. Here. They’re quite delicious if I say so myself...” He slipped a hand inside his armor and brought out a handkerchief wrapped around four aromatic, buttery, sugar cookies. He laid it on the ground next to the elf, and was surprised to see a slender hand with long white fingers snatch up the handkerchief and bring the food to the sculpted nose, giving an almost haughty sniff. John smiled as he heard the cookies crunching, and saw the elf lick his fingers clean.

John got up to leave, picking up the tray, and as he turned his back to walk away, he heard a soft croak from behind him. “Wait.”

“Yes?” John turned around, expectantly. The elf had shifted around, no longer facing the corner of his cell. He brushed the short wayward locks out of his startling grey eyes, tucked one bit of hair behind a pointed ear. He opened his mouth to speak, wincing slightly due to his cracked lip.

“In my tongue, my name is Sintalokse. It means ‘sheared locks.’

“However, in your tongue” the elf paused, and a hint of a smile appeared on the bloodied lips, “my name is Sherlock.”


End file.
